


(i’m still alive but) i’m barely breathing

by windsthatwhisper



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Out of Body Experiences, Spirits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsthatwhisper/pseuds/windsthatwhisper
Summary: It’s not until he hears Sharpy’s car pull out of the driveway that the Christmas lights blink on.N O C R Y I N G I N H O C K E YJonny laughs through his tears. “You’re an asshole.”(Patrick gets in a car crash and has an out-of-body experience. Jonny’s the only one that can see him.)
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 21
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For bisexualtoews on tumblr
> 
> I said I would finish this in a few weeks and it’s been MONTHS. I apologize for the delay. But it’s here and it’s angsty and I cried a little. 
> 
> Does not follow a specific timeline. Literally. God said, “what season is this” and I said “no.”
> 
> Title from “Breakeven” by The Script

He gets the call at ass o’clock in the morning, only hours after it happened. It’s Sharpy, and it’s the fact that he’s crying that wakes Jonny up enough to realize that something is very, very wrong.

“It’s Peeks,” Sharpy says, and that’s enough to make Jonny stumble from the bed and pull on his sneakers.

Jonny meets him at the hospital. Abby is there, too, sans Maddy and Sadie, but so is Seabs. Abby’s on the phone with, who he suspects to be, Donna because Seabs looks too distraught to talk and Sharpy looks on the verge of death.

“How bad?” Is the first thing Jonny says to them, still in his pajamas and not wearing socks. 

“Bad,” Seabs tells him, throat bobbing in attempt to keep his voice steady, “Some high schooler sped through the red light. T-boned Kaner right on his side. The kid died on impact. Kaner-”

He stops. Jonny’s throat burns in horror. Sharpy runs a hand over his mouth, taking a long, shaky inhale through his fingers. “They said he fell into a coma right after surgery.” He says, dangerously calm considering he was the person the hospital called. 

The air in Jonny’s lungs is ripped from him; blood rushes out of his head so fast it makes him dizzy, and he’s only able to just barely catch himself before his legs give out beneath him. He sits down hard in the seat behind him, arm flying out as he loses his balance. Distantly, it reminds him of when Patrick used to grab him by the wrist when Jonny would randomly trip over something. 

_“It’s your ass. It just completely throws off your center of gravity,”_ he would say.

It’s an unwelcome feeling, not having Patrick’s calloused hand wrapped tight around his wrist. 

“Jon, breathe, man.” Seabs tells him, and Jonny takes a sharp inhale when he realizes he hasn’t been able to catch his breath.

Jonny blinks out of the haze, looks up at Sharpy. He doesn’t want to ask but he has to know- “Is he gonna be okay?”

Sharpy rubs hard at his eyes. “They don’t know.”

“They don’t _know?”_ Jonny spits, “How could they not know? It’s their job to fucking know. How can they even-”

 _“Stop,”_ Sharpy croaks, “Calm the fuck down. Right now, they’re all Kaner’s got, so don’t fucking— they don’t _know,_ Jon. No one knows anything except that Peeks might-”

He can't finish his sentence. Jonny feels dizzy, feels like if he puts any weight on the ground he’ll fall right through. 

Abby walks over to them as she pockets her phone, eyes red but looking more alive than the rest of them. “Donna’s given us permission to visit him. She’ll be here tomorrow.”

Sharpy doesn’t look like he’s moving any time soon, even to see Patrick, and Seabs doesn’t make a move to get up. Jonny goes it alone.

A nurse takes him down to Patrick’s room and makes him clean his hands with puffy sanitizer. She also gives him a mask, just precautionary, but Jonny feels his throat get tight as he slips the straps behind his ears.

She opens the door for him. Jonny didn’t know what to expect upon sight of him, but it wasn’t— it wasn’t _this._ He knows that medical dramas do a shit job of accurately showing how patients look, how doctors act. But _still._ He didn’t expect to see so many tubes. 

Patrick’s unconscious in the bed, lights bright. Patrick would hate all the bright lights. He’d gotten accustomed to dim lighting while going through the motions of Jonny’s last concussion. Jonny wants to tell her to turn the lights down, that Patrick doesn’t like the lights on; but the doctors need to see him, make sure he’s okay, so he bites his tongue. 

There’s a bunch of machines hooked up to him. He’s got an oxygen tube resting against the openings of his nostrils, and a feeding tube up his nose. His arms are all cut up, left leg wrapped in a cast, elevated. There’s tubes coming out of him every which way, pumping him full of blood and IV’s and whatever medications they’re giving him. There’s a tube down his throat, taped to keep it still. There’s still some blood in his hair that they haven’t cleaned off yet. 

Jonny takes one step through the doorway, then turns and vomits into the trashcan.

  
  
  
  


There’s a bouquet of globe amaranths clutched in Jonny’s hands as he makes the trek to Patrick’s hospital room the next afternoon. He would have liked to come sooner, but they had a mandatory practice that Jonny couldn’t miss.

(He’d wanted to miss it, willing to be scratched from a game, but immediately felt guilty about it and took the exit ramp to get to the rink.)

The door was shut, but through the window he could see Donna and Jackie huddled against the side of the bed. Jackie lifted her head for a moment, then turned and locked eyes with Jonny outside of the room.

He paused, unsure of his next move. Then he swallowed, set the flowers on the floor in front of the door, and left. 

From then on, there’s always someone in the room with Patrick. Jonny had been ready to sit by his side every day until he couldn’t anymore, but logically he knew he wouldn’t be able to. It makes him feel better, knowing that if anything happens, Patrick won’t be alone.

They were supposed to have a game the day after the crash, but it was postponed for a later date out of respect. Still, they play the Blues tomorrow at home, and Jonny doesn’t know if he can do it.

He takes flowers to Patrick every day, but never finds it in himself to pass through the doorway. Jackie and Jess are in the room when Jonny comes on day three, and he gives the bouquet to Jess before hurrying away. He gets into his car and slams the door shut, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles pop. 

On day four, Jonny chickens out of going to the hospital and instead sends his daily bouquet of globe amaranths to Patrick’s room via the internet.

It’s his fourth day straight without sleep. He finds himself nodding off in the middle of lunch, or in the waiting room while he waits for Donna to get done so that he can go visit. It’s never more than a few seconds, and every time he snaps back to awareness, he’s always more awake than before.

They’ve just got done playing the Bruins, a terrible game that ended 7-4 and was the most physical game Jonny’s played since his last concussion. It was wrong, being in the locker room, on the ice, without Patrick. He misses his weak chirps and dumb eyebrow waggle and that stupid thing he does with his fingers, spreading them into a ‘V’ and wiggling his tongue between them. 

He slams through his condo, knocking things off the counters as he muscles through the doorways. He’s seething, livid, and his heart clenches in agony when his eyes land on the framed picture at the end of the hallway, him and Patrick beneath the Cup with matching grins and forward-facing caps. 

Jonny also misses Patrick’s dumb, stupid smile — the one that lights up his face and overtakes his features, eyes glittering, cheeks scrunching, gap-tooth so endearing it punches Jonny in the chest every time he sees it. 

Jonny snatches the closest thing he can grab and chucks it hard at the wall in front of him, and the water bottle lid shoots off upon impact, pouring water all over the floorboards. Jonny stands still, heaving, vibrating beneath his skin so hard that he’s two seconds away from tearing at it to make it stop. 

“Come back,” Jonny croaks.

There’s nothing but silence, Jonny’s heavy breathing, and then a single, weak _tap._

Jonny lifts his head. Ears straining, he looks around the corner to see if Seabs or someone used their key to get inside. There’s no one there. 

He walks into the room the noise came from. He peeks out of the peephole of his front door, but finds no one outside. When he turns around again, the water bottle is standing up on the floor with the lid screwed on.

He flails his arm out to find his bag on the couch, snags his stick, and wields it out in front of him. “Who’s there?”

_Tap._

Jonny whirls around to face the hallway, eyes wild. “Who’s _there?”_

_Tap tap._

Maybe Jonny just needs some sleep. It’s been four days and two panic attacks since Patrick’s accident. He could go to Doc Terry and get a higher dose of sleeping meds, and-

And there’s Patrick.

Patrick. At the end of the hall, right beside the Cup picture on the wall. Patrick, who’s in the clothes he was in during the crash, blood-stained and ripped, who’s translucent and is flickering like that pesky light in Jonny’s closet that he keeps forgetting to replace.

“Kaner?”

Patrick looks at him, reaches out for him, and winks out of existence. 

Jonny really needs some sleep. 

  
  
  
  


Duncs says as much the next morning at practice. Jonny had spent the entire night searching his house for the noise, for Patrick, but he came up empty. He told Terry before practice that he needed stronger sleeping meds. Terry hadn’t asked, just nodded and wrote him a prescription.

Jonny shrugs at his alternate, eyes pinpointed on the puck he’s stickhandling. Patrick had come up with a new trick he wanted to show Jonny. He’d mentioned it on the plane ride, mere hours before the accident, and had told him with a glint in his eye — the one he gets when he gets really excited about hockey, like he’s five again and just learned how to pick the puck up on his stick blade. Jonny never wants to forget that face. 

“Terry’s upping my meds,” he mumbles, then shoots the puck towards the middle of the ice and skates away. 

The locker room is silent when they’re getting undressed, no press and no Colliton talking about plays. It’s quiet, save for the zipping of duffel bags and shuffling of fabrics. Jonny sits in his stall in his under armor, staring at the floor between his socked feet. There’s a hole in the heel.

He realizes with a jolt that it’s the pair he wore the day Kaner scored his 1,000 goal. Patrick had chirped him about it later, laughing that no one was paying attention to him because everyone was too busy staring at that stupid hole in his sock — and his ass.

 _“It’s just right there in your face,”_ Kaner had sighed, _“Ass so good it’s got straight men falling to their knees.”_

 _“That’s not a thing that a straight man says, Kaner.”_ Jonny had told him, purposefully wiggling his ass out at him while he searched his shelf for a video game. Patrick had laughed and told him to pick Madden. _Madden._ Patrick was a disgrace, really.

He feels a hand rest on his shoulder. It pulls him from the memory, makes him realize he’s started to cry, and he straightens and wipes away his tears. He looks beside him to see who’s there, but when he turns, he’s only met with Kampf’s back as he’s pulling on his pants.

Jonny goes to speak, but Kampf slings his bag over his shoulder and heads out the doors with DeBrincat, never once acknowledging him. 

The thing is- he still feels a hand on his shoulder.

Confused, he rests his hand against the pressure spot, and immediately, it disappears. To his left, Patrick’s jersey swings slowly in his stall. Jonny grabs his bag and hitails it out of there, socks forgotten in the locker room.

  
  
  
  
  


He’s got blisters on the backs of his ankles by the time he gets home. 

When he makes it to the living room, he throws his bag on the couch with an angry huff, swings around the corner to get to the living room, and sits in Patrick’s spot.

Patrick has his own special spot on Jonny’s couch, where the sun never gets in his eyes and he has the perfect view of the tv. Patrick hates it when people sit in his spot, and he will go to drastic, bratty measures to get it back. 

Jonny knows he’s being irrational, and probably a little hysterical, but something’s going on. It’s either actually happening or in his head; and Jonny doesn’t know which is worse.

Jonny sits, waits, turns on _Legally Blonde_ because Kaner loves that shit. He looks behind him, to the hallway where he saw Patrick last night. This is crazy. _Jonny_ is crazy. Patrick’s still alive, still breathing, brain still functioning enough to keep his blood pumping and his heart going. Kaner’s not— he’s not—

Jonny blinks, and there’s Patrick, standing across the room in a translucent white color. 

He wants to cry. He wants to throw something at him, or throttle him. Maybe hug him. But he’s frozen, confused and scared and in anguish. Because that can’t be Patrick. Patrick is in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors and machines. Patrick is in a coma, not in the middle of Jonny’s living room.

The figure says something, lips moving, but no sound comes out. Jonny continues to stare. The figure must realize that Jonny can’t hear him, because his face falls, distraught. Jonny knows the feeling.

“I’m hallucinating,” he says to himself, but finds himself standing against his better judgement and making his way over to the figure. He’s flickering again, in and out, and Jonny keeps his eyes open as long as he can. If he blinks, Patrick could go away again.

The figure is gone suddenly, but comes back just as fast. It was longer than the flickering was, like he’s about to disappear. The figure lunges at him, air making contact with Jonny’s body, and for a moment, Jonny thinks his face solidifies — he sees Patrick’s eyes crinkles and the scar on his chin. 

The trembling under his skin stops. Everything stops; he blinks, slow, and his arms feel sluggish when he brings them up in an attempt to hug the air-creature around him. His head is drowsy, like when he lays out in the sun long enough to drift in a hazy feeling of warmth and peace. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel it in his throat, but it’s slowing. He’s able to gather up only enough energy to clumsily reach an arm out and grab ahold of the couch. 

The figure notices, and a horrified expression falls over his face when he realizes he’s taking Jonny’s energy. He moves away, backs into the far wall opposite of Jonny. In a blink, he’s gone.

Jonny leans back against the couch, staring at the space where the figure — where Patrick — once was. Jonny lays himself out across the couch and falls asleep for the first time in five days. 

  
  
  
  


Jonny wakes hours later, sky still dark and dotted with stars. He lays there, staring at the ceiling, then grabs his laptop from the coffee table and starts to google search. 

A lot of stuff comes up about ghosts. But Patrick’s not a ghost; he’s still alive. He keeps looking, finds iffy articles about gods, a few on curses. He’s got some sinking suspicion it’s got to do with Patrick’s spirit. 

“What are you?” Jonny asks, more like a statement. There’s no reply. 

Jonny spends another long hour scrolling through Google, going all the way as to clicking on the fourth and fifth pages of results, but he comes up blank. Everything they’re saying points to Patrick being dead. But he’s _not._ His heart’s still beating, and according to what the doctors told Sharpy, he’s not brain dead either. He’s _fine,_ just unconscious. 

“Why won’t you just wake the fuck up,” Jonny grumbles, but his voice cracks at the end, “Why did you have to drive in the first place? Why couldn’t you have just taken a fucking _Uber-”_

Jonny blinks, and when he opens his eyes there’s a water bottle on his laptop keyboard. 

Jonny leaps up, startled, knocking down the bottle and his laptop in the process. He can worry about that later. For now, Patrick’s back.

“Kaner?” 

There’s a couple rapid taps coming from somewhere. Jonny doesn’t know what that means. Reading up on demons for an hour and a half has him jittery. “Uh.” He read somewhere that he should try to open a line of communication with him. “Maybe try — tap once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’. Okay?”

... _tap._

The air whooshes out of Jonny’s chest, but his heart has jumped up into his throat. This- this is Patrick. He’s talking to Patrick.

He wonders how this has become his life.

“You are — this is Patrick, right? Kaner?”

The tap that follows is hard and loud. Jonny feels hysterical. “Oh my god. Fuck, you’re here. How are you here?” When he’s met with silence, Jonny forces himself to calm down. He swallows. The room is so quiet that he can hear the little _click_ it makes. “Okay. Sorry. Kaner, you- I just can’t believe it.”

There’s more silence. Something tugs hard between his ribs, panic bubbling up his throat. What if he’s gone again? What if he was never here? What if it’s all in his head?

“Pat?”

... _tap,_ then, _tap tap._

“Kaner,” Jonny croaks, “Fucking hell. What’s happening? Do you know?”

 _Tap tap._

Jonny has no idea where the sounds are coming from, where Patrick is. He wants to face him. He wants to see him. “Where are you, bud? Show me where you are.”

He keeps his ears out, eyes sharp, and he catches movement at the opening of the hallway that connects to the living room. He hurries to it, stumbling over scattered pillows and knocking stuff off the coffee table. He doesn’t pay any mind to it. There’s a single picture frame rocking slowly against the wall. It’s of Jonny and his little cousin on his day with the Cup in 2013. 

“I’m here,” he says softly, “Can you see me?”

The picture stops swinging, and Kaner uses his energy to give a little _tap_ in reply. Jonny smiles, big and beaming and fuck, he’s crying; there are tears falling onto his lips. He pays no mind to the bitter salt, because Kaner’s _right there._ “Kaner. Patrick. Oh my god.”

He’s too lost in his sobbing that he doesn’t feel the pressure against both of his arms until he feels drained, but it’s not from the breakdown. He looks up and locks eyes with Patrick’s own translucent ones. There's no color to any of him, just a grayish-white translucence that fills up his outline. He can see the lines of his clothes, the delicate eyelashes that fan across his cheeks when he blinks — he _blinks._ Is he supposed to blink?

He squints, getting as close as he can. He can just barely make out the faint shadows of the tube down real-Patrick’s throat, taped to his mouth, the lines of tubes coming out of his body and disappearing into the air. He sees the thin feeding tube up his nostril. He blinks, and they’re gone. It’s only Patrick’s faint figure and his matted hair. 

Patrick lets go of him, lets Jonny start to regather his strength. Jonny knows Patrick’s getting tired, will be gone any second, and without thinking reaches out to touch his cheek. He feels nothing but warm air, warmer than the rest of the house, which has to be a good thing — because don’t ghosts give off cold air? — and he sees Patrick lean into the hand cupped to his cheek, then vanish into thin air.

Jonny doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. 

  
  
  
  


News of Patrick’s crash made headlines after Jonny got the call. There were pictures of his wrecked car crushed against the metal barrier, and it’s a miracle none of those pictures have Patrick unconscious in the front seat. Sharpy’s seen those pictures, apparently. Jonny doesn’t want to.

Some of the articles expressed their concern for him, sending well wishes and wondering why this happened. But a majority of them said that Patrick’s gone back to his old ways of drinking and partying. _Barstool_ says that when Patrick’s recovered, the Hawks should trade him to avoid the bad press they’ll face. They didn’t mention that Patrick’s lying unconscious with a breathing tube stuffed down his throat. 

When news breaks that he’s in a coma, the reporters shut right the fuck up. 

They’ve got a string of home games scattered around days off, but every time Jonny gets on the ice despite being better rested and surrounded by his fans, he feels disconnected. He wants to be back home with Patrick, figuring this thing out. He wants to get Patrick back, and he can’t do that if he’s playing.

He feels guilty the moment the thought crosses his mind. Hockey has been his whole life, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Patrick would hell ah him if he heard Jonny’s thoughts. But he can’t feel Patrick at the rink. He can’t feel Patrick anywhere except his house, save for the first time he showed up in the locker room. Jonny’s conflicted; he hates it, and his team has taken notice in his mood change.

Sharpy corners him after practice exactly two weeks after Patrick’s first sighting. “You haven’t gone to see Kaner in a while.”

“Sorry if I don’t want to see my best friend’s deathbed,” he snaps, and only feels slightly guilty when he shoves him back and storms out of the rink. 

Jonny does not sleep and he does not leave the house unless it’s for practice or a game. It’s straight to the rink and then straight home, gets right back on his laptop to continue his research wherever he left off. Patrick doesn’t make himself visible much anymore, too much energy for him at a time, or something. But he makes noises every so often to remind Jonny that he’s there.

“Do you see a light?” He asks one night, and hopes the answer is no. 

_Tap tap._

He’s making breakfast one morning, multitasking between shoving toast down his esophagus and scrolling through articles on his phone when he asks, “Where do you go when you disappear?”

 _Tap tap tap._ A triple tap. ‘I don’t know.’

Jonny’s lying in bed one night and says, “Can you feel me when I touch you?”

_Tap._

He’s scrolling around on Netflix the next day, desperate for a way to get his mind off things. He tries to click on _Criminal Minds,_ but suddenly it’s backing out of the screen and clicking on _Narcos._

“Hey,” Jonny huffs, “What do you have against _Criminal Minds?”_

It’s a testament to how invested Jonny is in this, that the possibility of his television glitching isn’t even on the table, because he knows it’s Patrick. He knows. 

Jonny backs out of it, not feeling the mood for the show, and it’s a fight between remote and Patrick’s weird power surges toggling between _Narcos_ and anything else Jonny can find. He’s able to click on _Stranger Things,_ but only because Patrick stops wrestling with the energy. 

“Tired?”

_Tap._

Jonny gnaws at his lip. He wants to ask how he does it, how he can grab energy off random things but can only take energy from living beings to be even slightly visible. He wants to know, but he’s got no way of doing that without asking a hundred yes or no questions to phrase what he needs to get across. 

The trailer for the next season of _Stranger Things_ is playing right now, a preview of the series, and a lightbulb flashes in Jonny’s head. 

“I need to go to the store.”

Patrick is not happy that he left, because when he comes back, three of his lights are shattered and the sink is about to overflow.

“You’re a brat,” Jonny huffs, draining the sink before it ruins the linoleum, “You know I’ll always come back for you.”

Patrick doesn’t do anything, but Jonny can feel his presence beside him, as close as he can get without touching and draining any of Jonny’s energy. He’s scared. Jonny’s scared, too. 

It was worth running around all of Chicago to find Christmas lights in February — there were a few looks he got from shoppers when he left Target with overflowing armfuls of Christmas lights and expo markers, but whatever — when he finally gets it all set up. He takes the whiteboard from his office and hangs it up against the wall in the living room using Command Strips, then writes out the entire alphabet in big, blocky letters. He strings the Christmas lights above each letter. 

Distantly, he hears a thud. He bets good money Patrick took up some energy and used it to bang his head against the wall, because he’s overdramatic. Jonny loves him.

And that’s- yeah. He’s not going to touch that. 

“Let’s _Stranger Things_ this shit,” Jonny says when he takes a step back to look at his handiwork, then, sadly, “That sounded cooler in my head.”

Silence.

“Just try it, please?” He eventually begs, “If it works, we can actually talk. We might be able to get you back.”

There’s silence, then a single, quiet _tap._

Jonny blows out a relieved breath. “Try it. The lights aren’t plugged in so if they light up, we know it’s not electricity. It’ll confirm if you’re actually-”

He can’t finish his sentence because all the air in Jonny’s lungs shrivels up when he sees the blue light above the ‘J’ blink on. The rest stay off. The light goes out, only to be replaced seconds later by the light above the ‘B’ turning on. Then the ‘O’, and then — 

“You’re such an asshole.” Jonny sighs, exasperated, when Patrick spells out _‘J BONE.’_

The lights go out, and Patrick taps happily on the wall in agreement. Jonny’s ire is short-lived, though, because now he’s got proof it’s not in his head. It’s actually Patrick, right there with him, alive-and-something. He feels the tension drain out of him, shoulders slumping in relief. “Peeks.”

There’s another gentle tap, and then he lights up the letters to spell out _H E R E._

Jonny’s suddenly exhausted, and he drops down to his knees as he stares longingly at the whiteboard. He can picture it perfectly, Patrick standing there, arms outstretched as he waits to close his hand around a light, or maybe tap it, to spell out whatever he needs to get across. He can see his tangled hair, still matted with knots. Pants torn. Shirt blood-spattered. 

_H E R E_

Jonny sits down on the couch, biting his lip in thought. He can ask Patrick anything now, and he’ll be able to get a straightforward answer. He doesn’t want to ask, but, he’s curious—

“Where do you go when you- when you disappear?”

_B L A C K_

Well. Jonny frowns, pursed lips sliding together. He’s not sure what to even ask. He wants to know how Kaner’s doing, how he’s feeling, but those are stupid questions. He’s a fucking — whatever he is — not in his own body and not playing hockey. It must _suck._

And then, hockey. That reminds him. “Why didn’t you come to the rink yesterday?”

A moment passes where nothing happens, and then the question mark in the bottom row lights up. Jonny sets his jaw. “You showed up one day in the locker room. You put your hand on my shoulder; I know you did. You haven’t been by since.”

There’s a beat of silence, then two, then three, and then letters start lighting up. A ‘T,’ then an ‘I,’ an ‘R.’ 

_T I R I N G,_ is what Jonny gets.

So Patrick’s taking energy to be seen and to be felt. He’s getting too much energy outside Jonny’s condo. It makes sense; there’s natural energy sources outside, as well as nearly triple the energy coming from the UC. 

It adds to his list of things to make him paranoid. What if too much energy intake tires him out so much, he can’t take it and goes away forever? If this — this entity disappears, Patrick’s real body might die. 

So basically, Patrick can’t leave the condo. Jonny sighs, goes to fetch his emergency popcorn, and settles in for the night. If Patrick can’t leave, Jonny’s only leaving if he has to. 

  
  
  
  


He gets a picture a few days later of a cluster of the team visiting Patrick, circled around Patrick’s bed. They don’t show his face — thank god. Jonny doesn’t know if he could handle seeing that — but they do show the soft-looking Blackhawks blanket they settled over his legs.

It’s from Seabs, and there’s no message, but Jonny knows that it’s a silent scolding for not going with them. Jonny didn’t even _know_ they were going. That’s not his fault. 

Jonny’s life spirals into a daze. It’s the same thing day in and day out. He still sends globe amaranths to Patrick’s hospital room every day. Every notification makes him jump, every phone call gets him panicked. He’s scared, he’s so scared, that one day soon he’ll get the call. Maybe from Donna, who won’t want to speak for more than a few minutes because she’s busy grieving. Maybe from his mother, who will try to keep him calm but won’t be feeling the same effects as Jonny will be. Maybe from Sharpy, who will be crying so hard he can’t form sentences. But Jonny will know. The next call could be someone telling him that Patrick is dead.

His only relief is when he can talk to Patrick — because he can now. Sometimes, it’s like Patrick’s really there, a solid human form beside him. Sometimes Patrick will find the strength to show a little of himself, so Jonny can see him, will sit on the couch beside Jonny and force the tv to play _Jersey Shore_ with the side of his body pressed up against Jonny’s. 

They have full conversations now. They’ll talk about the team, Jonny’s play. Jonny will update Patrick on his family, tell him any new news on his sisters or his own health, but there’s usually not much to update on about that last one. 

They have a five day road trip that starts tomorrow. Phoenix, then Edmonton, Toronto, an off day, then San José. Jonny’s been on road trips while Patrick has been like this, but for some reason, as he lays in bed the night before, he feels itchy about it. He tosses and turns all night, trying to fall asleep, but his heart is racing too fast. Patrick doesn’t show up.

The trip is rough. Jonny doesn’t like being so far away from Patrick now. The team is doing better, slowly digging their way out of the funk they were in due to Patrick’s accident, but Jonny’s not. He’s setting up plays and checks people left and right, plays such aggressive and violent hockey that by the game in Toronto, some of the players are steering clear of him. 

Sharpy sits next to him on the plane ride back to Chicago. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jonny does. He wants to tell him that Patrick’s okay — sort of. That he can talk to everyone with the Christmas lights. He wants to say that sometimes, when Jonny’s really sad, Patrick will make himself visible and will hug him, even though it drains Jonny out. Because Patrick cares. Because Patrick is struggling, too. Because he’s comatose.

“No,” is what he does say, and puts on his headphones to block out the rest of the flight. He can’t fall asleep.

He gets home near seven. He hasn’t seen or felt Patrick since the road trip began. It’s made him anxious, twitchy under his skin. Something could have happened. Maybe his spirit went back. Maybe he couldn’t get enough of Jonny’s energy and can’t come back. Maybe Patrick— what if he—

“Patrick?” He calls, dropping his bag at the door and slamming it shut. “Patrick?”

He stops, waits, straining to hear any sort of noise, a tap or a crash or something falling. He can’t hear anything. 

“Patrick I’m here,” he says. There’s a tightness starting up in his chest, straight behind his sternum. It swells with every beat of his heart, every second that passes without a sound. “Please. Please, you can’t leave.”

He can’t be gone. He’s got to be here. They’re so close to figuring this out. He couldn’t have gone yet. It’s not time. He’s still alive; he has to be. He hasn’t gotten a call—

His phone pings, and then the shrill of his ringtone blares through the speakers. Jonny feels all of the air disappear from his lungs, and his eyes flood with tears. It can’t be. _He can’t be._ His phone is vibrating off the hook in his pocket, burning like a brand against his thigh. 

He’s numb as he goes for it, fishing it from his pocket. He almost doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want this to be it. The caller ID says _Sharpy._

It takes three tries to get his thumb to work and connect the call. He can’t muster up enough energy to greet him.

 _“Toes,”_ Sharpy says without preamble, _“You left your wallet on the plane.”_

A sob tears out of Jonny’s throat. He hangs up, phone falling from his hand, and he collapses onto the floor. He barely has enough strength to keep himself from faceplanting into the hardwood, and his arms come up to wrap around his head while he cries into the floor. 

There’s a skidding sound, and a cacophony of noises that follow. Jonny looks up from his arms and has to squint through the tears to see, but he’s able to make out the items on the coffee table moving, pictures swinging against the walls. It’s Patrick, it has to be, making sure Jonny knows he’s there. 

“Pat.” He sobs, still sprawled out on the floor. 

The Christmas lights blink in a pattern until Jonny’s brain is able to catch up. The letters spell out _I M H E R E._

He can’t see Patrick. He knows Patrick’s tired, that spirits can only gather enough energy for a brief glimpse moments at a time. They still didn’t know what was going on, what Patrick is, but all Jonny wants right now is to see him, make sure he’s really there, isn’t leaving, won’t leave until Jonny’s ready.

It’s selfish. It’s so selfish. But Jonny can’t take another scare like that. He can’t lose Patrick again. He wants to see him, gather Patrick in his arms and never let him go. He needs to—

He rolls himself onto his side, still lying on the floor, and says, “Lay with me.”

There’s nothing for a moment. The lights stop blinking, objects fall back to their respective places. For a brief, horrifying second, Jonny thinks Patrick’s disappeared again. But then he feels a gentle, steady pressure against his chest, and knows that Patrick’s got a hand pressed to his sternum. He places his own hand where the pressure is, imagining he’s cradling Patrick’s hand — that Patrick’s right there with him, that when he opens his eyes again he’ll be right there, waiting. 

  
  
  
  


Patrick must have drained some of his energy so that Jonny could feel his hand, because he falls asleep; and when he opens his eyes, Sharpy’s on his knees beside his head, shaking him violently by the shoulders. 

“For Christ’s sake,” he breathes when Jonny wakes up, “What the hell are you doing on the floor? I thought you fucking— you were holding your heart…”

Oh. Jonny looks down where his hand is still resting on his chest, but the pressure of a second hand is gone. Patrick’s not there anymore. He closes his eyes and tries to keep himself from crying again. 

“He’s fine,” Sharpy says, and it takes a minute for Jonny to register that he’s talking to someone on the phone, “I’ll get him to call you later.” When he hangs up, Sharpy tells him, “Abby is going to stab you with a spoon the next time she sees you.”

Jonny chuckles through his nose with a closed-mouth smile, but can’t seem to stop. He opens his mouth and laughs at the ceiling, rolling onto his back. There’s a faded brown stain where a Coca-Cola two-liter exploded after Patrick dropped it and Jonny unknowingly opened it up. Jonny had been drenched in sticky residue and spent a half hour scrubbing himself clean in the shower, and when he returned, Patrick had cleaned everything up. The only thing left was the stain on the ceiling. 

“C’mon, Jonny,” Sharpy mumbles, and helps him off the floor. Sharpy gets him on the couch before disappearing into the kitchen, only to come back with a water bottle and a granola bar. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

Jonny wants so badly to gripe back, to tell him that he’s fine and that he’s handling it fine and that everything is fine, but he can’t, because he can’t remember the last time he ate.

Jonny can see down the hall from where he’s sitting, and he sees the translucency of Patrick’s figure, the faint details of his face. Probably because there’s two people he can source his energy from. He looks sad. 

Sharpy turns his head, but he doesn’t see Patrick, obviously, because when he turns he still looks confused. Jonny shrugs, doesn’t say anything, and let’s his head fall back against the cushions.

“Maybe you should stay with someone-”

 _“No,”_ Jonny yells in a surge of panic. Patrick doesn’t have the energy to leave the apartment. Jonny’s got to stay with him. 

“Okay, okay,” Sharpy agrees and runs soothing hands up and down his arms, “Okay. What if someone stays with you? This isn’t healthy, Jon.”

“No,” Jonny moans, quiet. He wouldn’t be able to communicate with Patrick. They’d think he was crazy. Jonny still doesn’t understand why he’s the only one that can see him.

Sharpy gives his arm a gentle squeeze. “Can you tell me why you have that?”

He’s looking at the Christmas lights, and the letters on the whiteboard. Jonny closes his eyes and pleads the fifth. 

“Jonny, he’s-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sharpy looks a little frustrated, but he abides by Jonny’s wishes and drops the subject. Jonny’s able to convince him to leave, promising to call or text every few hours to let him know he’s fine, with an assurance that if Abby comes by, he’ll open his doors for her.

“Bonus points if she brings her apple pie.” Jonny jokes weakly. Patrick loves her apple pie. Maybe it’ll make him feel more comfortable while he’s stuck in this state. 

Sharpy smiles at him. “I’ll let her know.”

It’s not until he hears Sharpy’s car pull out of the driveway that the Christmas lights blink on. 

_N O C R Y I N G I N H O C K E Y_

Jonny laughs through his tears. “You’re an asshole.”

There’s a gentle _tap_ from the wall beside him, and Jonny knows that Patrick’s right there, just an arms-length away. 

Over the next few days, Jonny spends all of his time playing hockey and researching. Sometimes, when it’s been hours since he’s eaten, Patrick will open the door in a silent threat for him to eat or else he’ll spoil all his food.

Abby does come over, and she does bring the pie, and she’s kind enough to not say anything about the Christmas lights. When she leaves, Jonny cuts a slice for Patrick and puts it in the freezer, even though he knows Patrick can’t eat it. Just in case. 

He’s lounging on the couch while Patrick flickers beside him when he comes across an article about comas and out-of-body experiences he hasn’t seen before. It’s all pretty much the same as what he’s read before, but he comes to a section that combines out-of-body experiences with the paranormal.

_Over the years, out-of-body experiences have seemed to occur more and more frequently. What scientists don’t tell you, however, is that some cases don’t act like OBE’s at all. Some cases, victims of OBE’s have explained, are more than that._

_Most medical OBE’s end when the patient comes out of surgery, recovers from the anaesthetic, or wakes from their coma. Some patients’ OBE’s didn’t end until they physically returned to their bodies. But why?_

_The answer lies with the paranormal._

_It may sound silly, but consider: ghosts. We’ve come to the conclusion that the main reason ghosts exist is because there’s something they’ve left behind that they aren’t able to part with. They have a reason to stay behind. Once their sense of purpose for staying behind has been fixed, they can cross over._

_So what does this have to do with OBE’s? Some cases of out-of-body experiences may not be able to be fixed simply because the anesthetic has worn off. Maybe that’s why people stay in comas for so long. There’s something they have to do before they can cross over. Just like a ghost._

Jonny comes back to himself when he notices that every light in his house is flashing erratically. Jonny shuts the laptop quickly. “Patrick? What’s the matter?”

The lights stop and return to the state they were in prior to Patrick’s flash attack. The Christmas lights begin to blink.

_O K A Y ?_

A warm feeling settles over Jonny. “Yeah, Peeks, I’m okay.” The lights turn off, but then he feels a pressure against the right side of his body, where Patrick more than likely has pressed himself against him. Jonny opens his laptop again. “I’m okay. But I think I found something. I don’t know if you can read it.”

There’s a single tap, so Jonny takes it as a yes, he can read, and settles back while he lets Patrick skim through the article. “Do you think— do you think this is why?”

He can tell when Patrick begins to get overwhelmed, because the lights start to get brighter. There are lightbulbs in the fan and one in the lamp. Each one grows brighter as Patrick keeps reading, and eventually Jonny has to shield his eyes from the light. Jonny’s front door opens with a jolt, and the lightbulb in the lamp pops loudly, then fizzles out. The presence of Patrick is gone, and it strikes Jonny hard in the nerves. Usually more people make Patrick stronger. 

Sharpy’s let himself in with his key, but he’s also got Seabs, Duncs, and Crow with him. Seabs closes the door and eyes the Christmas lights above the whiteboard. Jonny has a sinking feeling that this is an intervention. 

“Uh, what are you guys doing here?” He asks, eying them critically. 

Crow frowns sadly at him, “I think you know.”

Jonny doesn’t like the way they’re sizing up his condo. He can’t feel Patrick at all and it’s making him nervous. He can feel an itch start to work its way up his chest. He forces himself to not scratch at it. “This isn’t a good time, guys.” He tries, standing up in hopes of ushering them out the door. Of course, it proves to be futile.

“Sharpy tells us you’re ghost hunting.” Seabs says without emotion. 

“I am not _ghost hunting.”_ Jonny huffs.

Duncs lifts an arm and gestures to the wall of Christmas lights and expo marker letters. Jonny’s face turns pink.

“I thought- okay,” he’s obviously not getting out of this one, so all he’s left with is appealing to the enemy, “I thought maybe. I thought I was hearing stuff, maybe it was him. I don’t know, but it wasn’t. I just needed some sleep.”

Crow stares at him, and for a moment, Jonny thinks he’s been made. But then, he says, “I think what you need is a beer. Or four.”

“Or tequila.” Sharpy adds helpfully.

Seabs swoops over with a hand on Jonny’s shoulder, looking at Sharpy like a mother scolding her child. “What he needs is a night out. You need to relax, man, and staying cooped up in your apartment isn’t helping you in the slightest.”

“But-” Jonny tries, because he can’t leave Patrick, but the guys are already dispersing to find Jonny’s shoes and wallet and left sock, because apparently he’s only been wearing his right. He can’t even remember putting socks on in the first place. 

Once the guys are out of the room, he turns, and finds the Christmas lights blinking. 

_G O_

Jonny frowns. “What about you?”

_N O W_

“Who’re you talking to?” Duncs asks, walking back in with Jonny’s left sock. Hallelujah. 

Jonny watches the lights for a moment, but nothing happens. “No one,” he says, and pulls on his sock.

They take him to the club two miles away. They don’t have a game tomorrow, so Sharpy buys Jonny six shots of tequila and makes him down them one after the other. Jonny’s hating himself for leaving for all of thirty minutes until the alcohol starts to kick in and he goes to buy himself the most alcoholic thing on the menu. 

He gets himself roaringly drunk. It’s not enough to forget about Patrick, but he’s drunk enough that Seabs and Crow have to carry Jonny into his condo and lay him out across the bed so he doesn’t fall and brain himself on the dresser. Sharpy even strips him to his underwear so he doesn’t suffocate himself trying to get it off. There’s sympathy in his eyes.

“Try to get some sleep,” Duncs tells him, and leaves two water bottles and a container of Advil on the bedside table for tomorrow.

When they leave, Jonny lays in bed, staring at the ceiling for a while thirty seconds before yelling out for Patrick. Which is kind of dumb, because the lights are in the living room, but Patrick can always tap to alert Jonny of his presence.

He doesn’t hear anything, even the other three times Jonny calls out for him. But he’s so drunk that he can’t even process worry over it. Instead, he’s got a boner for no reason. 

Is Patrick watching? Maybe. 

Is he still going to rub one out? Absolutely.

It takes a minute to get out of his underwear, and there’s a sound that could possibly be the fabric ripping, but Jonny doesn’t care. He gets a hand around himself, thinks better of it, then licks his hand. When he grabs himself again, it’s easier, not as rough. 

Despite jerking it shamelessly in the middle of the bed, he finds himself wishing Patrick was here. If he closes his eyes, thinks real hard, he can picture it: Patrick at the foot of the bed, watching. Or maybe Patrick laying beside him, hands reaching out to rub over his pecs. Patrick’s got such nice hands, veiny and wide. Softly calloused. Jonny wants to feel them across his skin, the drag of his fingers, the catch of the callouses. 

Jonny just misses Patrick. He wants all of him, as much as Patrick would be willing to give him.

He thinks of Patrick on top of him, legs splayed over his hips. Rocking his ass back against Jonny’s dick. Patrick’s got such a nice ass, all plump and round, and it’s obscene in those tights that he wears in the locker room.

Then again, he’d much rather Patrick wear tights instead of walking around in his boxers, or _worse:_ nothing at all. Jonny doesn’t want anyone to see Patrick like that. Only Jonny gets to. Only Jonny can.

 _“Possessive asshole,”_ he can hear Patrick cursing at him, and Jonny comes all over his hand and his balls. 

He’s only got enough energy to wipe himself off with a Kleenex before passing out, with a phantom weight of Patrick pressed against him. In his haze of sleep, he can tell, though. It’s not Patrick at all.

  
  
  
  


Jonny wishes he could get drunk every day, but he’s not an alcoholic and he’s got a job to do, games to win, except none of it’s the same without Patrick.

They win the game against the Islanders by one, but Jonny gets checked hard into the boards and has to go out in the middle of the third to make sure he didn’t break his collarbone. He didn’t, thank god, but they put his arm in a sling just in case and told him to rest for a day. 

When he gets back to his codo, Patrick is standing in the brightest translucence Jonny’s ever seen him. The lights are dim and flickering. By the time he closes the door, Patrick’s on him, glowing hands cupping his cheeks and pushing at his arms, his shoulder, and when Jonny hisses under his breath, Patrick wrenches himself away.

“No, I’m okay,” Jonny assures him, reaching his uninjured arm out, “It’s just a little sore.” 

He tries to put his hand on Patrick’s arm, but falls right through and into Patrick’s chest area. Patrick looks down where Jonny’s hand meets his chest. Jonny rips his hand away like it was burned. “Sorry.”

Patrick’s getting fainter. He draws himself forward and wraps himself around Jonny as tight as he can. It’s nothing more than a gentle pressure against his front, the brush of his hands across his back, but it’s the best thing Jonny’s felt since he got that call. 

Jonny does his best to hug him back, but within seconds, he’s only holding air. Jonny brings his arms around himself the rest of the way. 

  
  
  
  


“We need to talk,” says Jonny the next day.

The light above the question mark turns on.

“We need to cover every possibility as to why you’re stuck like this,” Jonny tells him, then opens his laptop up where he’s pulled up the link to the article about ghosts and out-of-body experiences, “You read something in this article that upset you. You exploded the lightbulb in my lamp. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Jonny can feel the smugness radiating from him. 

“Listen, the article said that you might have unfinished business,” he says, “It could be anything, big or small. I need you to think really hard, Kaner. Is there anything that could be keeping you back?”

Jonny waits for a response, but he gets nothing. He tries to help, tries to think of anything that could bug Patrick’s subconscious so much that he’s stuck as a spirit. “Did you upset your mom? Did you — I dunno, hurt someone and never apologize? Did you leave a pop tart in the toaster and never forgive yourself for almost burning the house down?”

That barters no response, which is odd, because usually Patric would quip something smart about Jonny’s weird health shit and crappy taste in food, but he’s only met with silence. “…Kaner?”

He waits, but the silence lingers. A tell-tale tightening feeling starts a slow rise behind his ribs, and he looks around frantically as if he’ll be able to spot Patrick’s invisible figure. _“Kaner?”_

There must have been something in his voice — or maybe it’s because he’s obviously five seconds way from another anxiety attack — but the Christmas lights flicker in a random pattern before spelling out the usual _‘I’m here’_ that has Jonny immediately calming down.

“What the hell, man,” he croaks, sinking down onto the couch, “You can’t just-just act like you’ve _disappeared._ I can’t—” _handle it,_ is what he doesn’t say, but it lingers in the air thick enough for Patrick to hear it. He rubs his face in distress. “God, I’m gonna need so much therapy after this.”

 _S O R R Y,_ the lights blink out.

Jonny smiles weakly at them. “S’okay, bud. We’ve just gotta figure this out, okay?” He looks back at the article and skims through it again. If Jonny didn’t know any better, he’d say he can feel the nervousness pouring off of Patrick in waves. Maybe he can. This spirit shit is weird. 

“You know what it is, don’t you?” Jonny asks, glancing back up at the lights. “That’s why you didn’t say anything. Because you know.”

There’s a single knock against the wall. Jonny pushes down the strike of hurt that hits him at the implication that Patrick’s too worried to tell Jonny whatever the thing is. Or scared. Is he scared?

“Are you scared?” Jonny asks, but gets nothing back, “Come on, Kaner. We’ve gotta figure this out? You can’t keep this up. You could vanish one day. Something could happen to you, and I — I can only take so much of this. So you’ve gotta trust me, okay? Everything you say is between the two of us, and nothing you say can ever make me hate you. Alright? Please talk to me.”

The soft whirring of the fan almost masks the quiet, delicate knock against the wall. Jonny could be worried that it means Patrick is getting weak, but a feeling settles in the back of his mind, like a burning coal, that tells him that Patrick is being timid. For whatever reason, he believes it. 

Slowly, the lights begin to blink. _L O V E Y O U._

Jonny furrows his eyebrows, but he smiles despite his heart clenching so hard he has to run at his chest to will it away. “Love you too. Now, what’s up?”

There’s a pause, and then two knocks. Jonny’s eyebrows stay furrowed. “What? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Patrick knocks twice again, then, _I L O V E Y O U._

“You already said that.” Jonny frowns.

There’s a hard thunk against the wall. 

“Did you just slam your head into the wall? Fuck you, I’m trying to help you, but if you’re not going to take this seriously—”

 _I L O V E Y O U_ lights up again. Jonny stands there, staring at the lights, trying to understand. Did Patrick not think that Jonny knew he gave a shit about him? Did he think Jonny just spent his time with a guy who didn’t like him? Did Patrick think that _Jonny_ didn’t like him? That’s impossible, though. Jonny loves him. And Patrick loves—

Oh. 

“You love me,” says Jonny on a breath, hands falling limp at his sides. 

There’s another timid knock. Jonny doesn’t move, only continues to stare at the lights as if Patrick’s still lighting them up. He’s not, but it feels like he is, because Patrick just told him he loved him and the letters have been burned into his brain.

“You never got to tell me,” Jonny says, “Is that— is that why you’re like this?”

He hears three consecutive taps, but then another single tap, which Jonny takes to mean that Patrick doesn’t know, but he’s probably right. 

Fuck. Patrick loves him. Patrick _loves him._ He could probably say it back, or tell Patrick not to worry, or celebrate because they’ve figured it out. But the only think that comes out of his mouth it, “Of course it took one of us almost dying for us to get our shit together.”

Patrick pushes at his shoulder, but Jonny thinks he’s laughing. God, it really is Toews and Kane culture for a brush with death to bring them together. 

The giddiness of the moment starts to dissipate, however, when Jonny realizes that, that’s it. They’ve cracked this thing. And there’s a fifty/fifty shot of how this will go. “Now that you’ve told me, do you think you can go back to your body?” 

There’s a beat of pause, then, _tap._

Jonny’s chest seizes. “Okay,” he says, wheezed, “Okay, tomorrow then. We’ll do it tomorrow. And- Peeks!” He shouts, because he can feel Patrick leaving, “I-I love you too.”

He stands in silence, but he can feel that Patrick is still there. He waits, and then watches as all of the pink lights turn on.

Jonny smiles. He’s surprised at how much he feels better. No matter what happens tomorrow, Patrick knows he loves him. Patrick’s made his peace, and now, so has Jonny. 

  
  
  
  


Jonny walks through the doors of the hospital and immediately wants to throw up. It’s the first time he’s been here in months. He hates it. 

He signs in, takes a mask from the box, and scrubs his hands in sanitizer four times before he makes the journey to Patrick’s room. He feels almost numb as he rides the elevator, but the moment he steps out and into the hallway, every emotion he could possibly encounter comes barreling into him, legs wobbling as he gets closer. He wraps his hand around the doorknob, trembling, and pushes the door open.

Patrick is exactly where he was when Jonny left him. It hurts, it hurts a lot, to think that he’s just been laying there for three months. No hockey, no stupid jokes, no trying to brain Jonny with his elbow because he’s a mean motherfucker. And Jonny loves him. 

There are flowers scattered across the room, some in vases, baskets on the couch. Jonny’s daily delivery of globe amaranths are sitting front and center of all the other bouquets on the far table against the wall. 

There’s no one else in the room. He closes the door behind him, soft, and walks up to the side of the bed. His face is hot, partially because of the mask over his mouth, but also because he’s scared. This is it. Patrick either comes back or dies. 

“I need you to come here, Pat,” Jonny says into the open air, “Come find me.”

There’s nothing. No swooshing sounds. No pressure. No movement from the curtains. 

“Find my voice,” he says again, “Come find me.”

There’s silence, a creak, and then a gentle _tap_ from the wall. Jonny smiles, relieved. “This is it. You’ve gotta come back, okay bud? You’ve just gotta follow my voice right back here.” 

Jonny’s nervous, and a quiet shuffle sound confirms that Patrick is, too. “I love you.”

The ceiling lights flicker. Jonny takes it as an _I love you, too._ He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels a soft pressure brush beneath his eye, Patrick’s thumb wiping away a tear. “You need to do it now, okay? I— come home. You need to come home now.” 

Before either of them can do anything, the door opens, and Sharpy’s there with a mask around his mouth. “Jonny?”

No. 

This isn’t right. They need to be alone. Jonny’s given his blessing to Patrick; it’s all fixed. But they need to be alone. Maybe he didn’t leave yet. Maybe Patrick’s still there, and they can try again—

Patrick’s heart monitor chirps loudly, out of tempo, and suddenly it’s racing, beeping rapid and sporadic. For a moment, Jonny thinks that’s good, that his heart is working and he’s waking up, but then a nurse comes skidding into the room looking panicked. 

“I need some help in here!”

“What’s going on?” Jonny asks, but never gets an answer. A handful of nurses and doctors run into the room, dragging equipment and a cart with them. When they push Patrick’s bed flat, Sharpy takes him by the arm and starts pulling him out of the room. He rips the mask off of his face. “Hang on! What’s happening? What’s happening to Patrick?”

“He’s in v-fib,” someone shouts, and that’s when Jonny starts yelling. 

Sharpy wraps his arms around him, dragging him through the doorway. Jonny can’t see Patrick at all behind the wall of doctors. He sees someone climb on top of him.

“Find me!” He cries, frantic, voice straining as he tries to make himself heard over all the talking. Patrick needs to hear him. He has to find his way back. 

“Jonny, stop,” someone says. He thinks it’s Sharpy.

“I’m here!”

Jonny’s still screaming, but it’s fuzzy, like he’s underwater and can’t get to the surface. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears, clogging up his hearing. His lungs burns for air, but he can’t get any in. He yells until his vocal cords feel like they’re being torn, ripping apart like muscle. 

_“Patrick!”_

He wants to run to him but legs won’t work, and even if they could, Sharpy’s got a vice-like grip around his middle, his arms, holding him back. His heart is two seconds away from bursting out of his chest, blood rushing to his ears in heavy thumps, thick, pounding. 

A loud, drawn out beep of a flatline pierces through everything else. He feels Sharpy’s grip on him go weak around the middle, but his elbows are still locked to keep his arms in place. 

“No,” Jonny sobs, legs giving out beneath him. Sharpy’s only barely able to make the save before he collapses and sends them both to the ground.

“Time of death-” he hears a doctor say, and then a faint, weak _beep._

Jonny lifts his head. The beeping gets faster, stronger, and evens out into a steady rhythm. Jonny stares, tears still pouring from his eyes like a waterfall, and doctors start working again. 

This time, there’s no flatline. This time, when a doctor speaks, it’s to say, “Welcome back, Mr. Kane.”

Jonny’s thrown headfirst into hysterics all over again. Sharpy has to take him aside so the doctors can work without distraction, and they sit in the middle of the floor and cry together. 

  
  
  
  


Jonny lets the nurses handle calling Donna. As soon as they give him the green light to go in, Jonny’s stumbling through the doorway in a blind panic. 

They’ve taken the tube out of Patrick’s throat. His eyes are closed, heart monitor beating steady. It’s a comfort after hearing the flatline. Jonny pulls up a seat next to him, gets as close as he can, and takes Patrick’s hand in his. Sharpy’s hovering by the door, eyes rimmed with red. 

“Wake up, Patrick,” he says, muffled by the mask over his mouth, “It’s time to come back now.” 

For the first time in his life, Patrick listens to him. He opens his eyes.

It’s not a lot, just a fraction. The lights probably hurt his eyes, and he’s exhausted. But he’s there, awake and responsive and looking directly at Jonny. There’s not a lot of iris he can see, but it’s enough. He’s missed those dumb blue eyes so much.

Jonny smiles behind his mask. “Hey, Peeks.”

Patrick’s lips, cracked and dry, twitch into a tiny smile. His voice is feeble, raspy, but it’s the best thing Jonny’s ever heard. 

“Hi, Jonny.”


	2. Epilogue

Since the accident, there have been exactly four hundred thousand times Jonny has wanted to throttle Patrick for all he’s worth.

Okay, so maybe not four hundred thousand, but the number is big. 

Hardly anything has changed since Patrick woke up. They still scream at each other on the ice, and in the car, and in the kitchen. Jonny threatens to put the tv remote on the top of the DVD shelf where Patrick can’t reach, which makes Patrick snatch up all of Jonny’s precious protein shakes and threaten to pour them all down the drain. 

However, now there is kissing involved. Kissing, and hand holding, and fucking, and cuddling. There’s movie dates and Jonny letting Patrick buy a big pack of candy at the store because he loves his Peeks, okay? He’s gonna dote the shit out of him, because now he can. 

Sometimes, Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night, reliving the car crash all over again. A lot of the time, Jonny wakes up yelling out for Patrick, and it takes Patrick ten minutes to wake him up by talking and pinning Jonny down so he doesn’t sock himself in the face.

Jonny hardly ever talks about his dreams, but Patrick knows that they’re of him — him not waking up, or him dying in the crash. They go to therapy once a week to work through it. 

Both Patrick and their therapist aren’t really surprised that Jonny’s the one with the separation anxiety and the PTSD. Jonny is, and feels immensely guilty about it, because _Patrick’s_ the one who almost died, not him. They’re working through that one.

Some days, Jonny’s in a mood. Itchy under his skin and always wanting to be in some kind of contact with Patrick, to remind him that he’s there, he’s alive, he’s fine. On those days, Patrick just shushes him, takes Jonny’s arms and wraps them tight around himself, gets right up close so Jonny can feel the beat of Patrick’s heart against his own. Then, Patrick will take him up to their room, lay him on their bed, and fuck him nice and slow, bodies pressed together so that Jonny knows he’s there. It’s not something that happens on every one of those days, because sex doesn’t cure everything, but it happens a lot.

Currently, Jonny’s got Patrick flat on his back, legs spread and hooked around his hips as he moves slowly, agonizingly, but Patrick can tell by the shake of Jonny’s arms that he needs it slow tonight. Patrick can give him that. 

“Where’d you go?” Jonny grunts, shoving in farther. 

On their good days, they fuck hard and fast and desperate, as if they were back in their twenties — Patrick wishes they had the refractory period of their twenties. There is so much he could do with that timespan. But it’s good like this too; it's always good, whether Patrick’s riding Jonny’s dick into the goddamn sunset or Jonny’s stretched out on his front while Patrick eats his ass. 

“Nowhere, baby,” Patrick says, and he watches the way Jonny shudders and bucks his hips deep into Patrick.

“Patrick,” Jonny whines, muscles taut. 

Patrick can feel the start of the heat in his gut, the coil of the closeness of his orgasm. He rides it out, though, tips his head back so Jonny can nose across his skin and suck a bruise into his neck. There’s no desperation to it tonight. Jonny never asks when he needs it, but Patrick knows. He always knows. He drags Jonny’s face off his neck to kiss him. 

“I’m right here.”

He likes to look into Jonny’s eyes when he comes. The eyes usually so full of fire and fight on the ice are so much softer, so vulnerable in this position. And seeing Patrick come always makes Jonny come, and he shakes apart above him with that tiny grunt that Patrick loves. 

Jonny stays seated inside him for a little, settling on his elbows by Patrick’s head with their sweaty chests smashed together. He gently brushes away the sweaty curls stuck to Patrick’s head and stares down at Patrick like he’s his whole world. It’s overwhelming, to say the least, but he can’t deny that he loves having all of Jonny’s attention. 

He runs his hands up and down Jonny’s sides, across his biceps, up to his face so he can brush his thumbs over Jonny’s cheeks and eyelids and nose. “I’m always right here.”

Jonny kisses softly at Patrick’s fingertips. He loves the way Patrick smiles after sex, small, spreads easy like butter. This time is no different as he flashes his teeth lovingly at his boyfriend, and Jonny finds himself leaning into him. 

Then, Patrick lifts his hand to his mouth, spreads his fingers into a ‘V,’ and wiggles his tongue between them, and — yeah. Nothing’s changed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it :)

**Author's Note:**

> :3 i love happy endings. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Globe Amaranths represent immortality and unfading love. I figured that Jonny, ever the plant lover and Earth enthusiast, would know that.


End file.
